


MISSING, IF SEEN, PLEASE REPORT TO-

by delibell



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90s, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love Triangles, Murder Mystery, Twin Peaks - Freeform, stranger things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-01-31 02:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12666462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: It’s the 90′s and Richie Tozier is still in love with you. In an unexplainable turn of events, the Losers are led to believe that Pennywise is back. And that you’re missing because of him.WARNINGS: mentions of abuse, alcohol and drugs[AU] (GREATLY INSPIRED BY TWIN PEAKS)originally posted at (my tumbler) @ delicrieux





	1. Harry Bompton’s Ice Tea House

_Please fucking think about me. Because all I do is think about you._

It is hopeless, however, because Richie Tozier can’t reach you no matter how hard he tries and simply regards you with a longing look as you pass through the halls. The two of you are worlds apart. Exist in the same space as different entities, parallel lines, occasionally meeting but never meant to touch. And he had had this fire burning in him since he was eleven. How could he not? You were best friends back then. With him. With everyone. Now, you’re merely a shadow of your former self, an unexplainably hot shadow, but so different you’re hardly recognizable.

Back in the good old days you and Beverly had matching T-Shirt’s that read ‘ _LOVER’_  in black and red letters, wore big dorky glasses that would, much likes Richie’s, slide off your nose and constantly needed fixing. You rarely wore skirts, if he recalls correctly you hated the color pink and how uncomfortable it was climbing trees with dresses. When Beverly had cut her hair due to circumstances still unknown to Richie, you being her best friend cut off yours, too. Oh, he remembers now, how your hair would puff and bounce around your face, how it, for the most part, looked like a bird’s nest and how fun it was to run his fingers through it. You had gotten a harsh slap from your mother for pulling that stunt. You never once regretted it, though.

Now… now it’s a different story. Now you do wear short skirts with thigh highs that never fail to distract him, heavy jackets and crop-tops that reveal your belly-button piercing and always use cherry chapstick. He knows this because he had overheard the football team once talking, specifically your boyfriend, that kissing you was like sucking on a lollipop.

He, Eddie and Stan sit by the windows at  _Harry Bompton’s Ice Tea House_. A new café of this sort had opened roughly five years ago and was the highlight of Derry’s year, and initially everyone had taken an interest in it, but now its customers are mainly teens and young adults since the older folk never got used to the constant pop music that blares out the speakers. Another mild orange-gold October day. Friday, afterschool, Richie would usually find himself smoking cigarettes in the playground or at Eds playing video games, but Good Boy Stanley Uris had called them all here for one reason or another and currently the trio is waiting for the rest. An annoying voice, that of Jocelyn Haggins – the coolest bitch on earth, according to her,- drones behind him and he already feels a headache forming. His eyes trail the counter and every waitress, trying to find you but you’re nowhere in sight.  _Weird_. He is pretty sure you work on Fridays…

And he can’t blame you for changing. He and the rest have undergone some changes, too. Richie lost his glasses, replaced shorts with pants and now mostly wears black because he is just that much of a misfit. Perhaps his change was the most prominent. He can’t deny that it was, in a way, a futile attempt to make him stand out. To catch your attention.

Richie remembers one sleepover, a sleepover at Bill’s that probably changed his whole life. And by that, he means made him fall in love with you.  _The night was dark and stormy and neither you nor he could fall asleep but the rest of the gang snored soundly and the two of you were pretty sure you couldn’t wake them up even if you wanted to. Back then your hair was short. In the darkness he recalls trying to make out the contours of your face, see the brilliant gloss of your eyes hiding behind a pair of thick glasses, see your lips move; he knew you were talking, arguing more like it, but he couldn’t exactly pinpoint the main features of your face. Gradually, he got used to the shadows. It was hot under his blanket and his heart jumped in his chest when lightning pierced the sky and lit up the whole world in one powerful flash. You had grasped his hand in fright and he had laughed at you, shakily, trying to mask how that scared him, too. And you sat up, your hair swishing by your sides; your free hand went to awkwardly fix your glasses and in the darkness again, he couldn’t make you out, but he was positive you were blushing. He had grinned, sat up too, and replied something cheeky._

What were you two arguing about? Richie jogs his mind.  _Chapstick_.  _Lips_ …

Kissing _! That’s what it had been! You and Richie Tozier were arguing who was a best kisser in hushed whispers in an attempt to stay quiet. Of course, back then the most action either of you had seen was on late night TV, but it was enough to ignite the curiosity of it. So as lightning struck again, in beat of Richie’s racing heart, you had leaned in and kissed him. And…it was awkward, yours and his glasses clanked together and the best he could describe the feeling on his lips was warm and wet, but not particularly bad. After that embarrassing attempt you didn’t dare to try again. Richie found it incredibly amusing, “Oh, c’mon, babe, you know people kiss without glasses!” So he took his off and nearly folded them on his pillow. Now completely blind, Richie reached for your face, “Let’s try without—“_

_“Goodnight, Richie.” You had mumbled, falling into your makeshift bed and rolling the covers over your head to hide from the world._

_“No! Babes, please!”_

Eddie nudges him harshly and Richie nearly falls off his seat, “Dude, you with us?” Eddie asks, biting into his cheesecake; he hums, “You think this has many allergens?” Now he turns to Stan but the boy simply shrugs.

“Why are we here, again?” Richie inquires, eyeing Stan carefully. The boy glances away before looking back and Richie knows he’s either hiding something or trying to form sentences that don’t really want to come out, “Spit it out, man, I have shit to do.”

“Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure you do.” Stan comments.

So maybe the Losers Club has gone through some rough patches, too, and you leaving had definitely taken a toll. See, much like Stan himself, you wanted nothing to do with Pennywise the Dancing Clown, nor were you particularly enthusiastic to be friends with them after it. You swore, all of you had, but after that slowly and gradually you had drifted away. You only really kept in touch with Stan, even if you were hardly friends when you had joined the Losers Club. Richie supposes he never really forgave the two of you. After all, you had rejected each and every one of them except Stan because he was just as done with the Pennywise shit as you were. You just wanted a nice summer.

“ _Guys_ , seriously, stop.” Eddie intervenes, “I know everyone’s is still…shaken after what happened, but try to keep your cool.” Warily, he glances around, makes sure no one is eavesdropping, but who is he kidding? Who would want to eavesdrop on  _Losers_? “Is this…why you called us here, Stan?”

Stan gives a curt nod, “ _Y_ -Yeah…”

Today at school something interesting had happened. During morning announcements instead of the boring voice belonging to the student body president talking about news and upcoming events, music played. Well, calling it music is a misgiven, more like a melody.

A familiar melody.

_Pennywise’s melody._

“—But there’s something else, too.” Stan stresses. “It’s (Name). She’s…missing.”

Right there and then a dark void appears beneath Richie’s feet and he feels himself slowly being sucked in.


	2. The Lo[v]ers Club

Stan Uris takes a quick breath, accompanied by an even quicker step as he, and the rest of the now worried Losers, try to catch up with him on the road to your house. The October sun burns brightly, not a cloud in the sky and so the whole street reflects with nearly irritating luminosity. It’s hot. Hot for such a cold morning, hot for Fall and hot enough to make Stan unzip his jacket and let the cool air caress his skin. It is entirely possible that he’s simply hallucinating this change in weather, proved by the fact that two girls pass the gang, huddled up in scarves and hats and fur boots. But Stan can’t help it he is so anxious.

After all, if Pennywise did get you, it is entirely  _his_  fault.

“W-Well, what if she went on vacation?!” Eddie suggests with a strain in his voice, “She runs away all that time with that boyfriend of hers. And Jocelyn tags along, too!”

“You honestly think the whole school wouldn’t know by now?” Beverly snaps back; her brows knit together into a soft sad frown and she looks down with a light shake of her head, “Unlikely. Stan’s right. Something’s wrong.”

“I told you, she hasn’t been home for three days.” Stan repeats the words he had said back at the café, just this time in a much colder impersonal tone, “I went to check up on her. Her mom said she was out and would come back soon. She didn’t.”

“Maybe she just didn’t want to see you.” Richie inquires. Stan glances at him.

“The only one she would want to see out of all of us  _is_  me.” He then looks back at the group, “No offense.”

Beverly shrugs, “None taken…” But her voice suggests otherwise.

“But if she really is missing, then why are there no posters? Shouldn’t the police act as soon as possible?” Eddie presses.

“Are you kidding?” Mike utters, “You know what happens when a ‘missing’ poster is put up in Derry. Everyone loses their shit.”

A hush falls over the losers – finally, in the distance loom the familiar walls of your house; suddenly they all feel like kids again, after all it is rare for them, except for Stan, to find themselves in this part of town. Your home sits neatly squeezed between two bigger buildings – one of them is Stan’s. The lights are off, curtains drawn. As far as Stan knows, your mother is at Betty’s – you had once told him, an off comment, that it’s tradition for your mother to lounge around on Friday evenings with her best friend, - whilst your dad, the sheriff, will be at work till 9. If no relatives are paying a visit, then they shouldn’t run into any trouble.

“Guys but…” Ben pipes up, “-but are you sure that breaking into her house is the best idea?”

“You have another suggestion?” Stan asks.

Ben shrugs, “We don’t know if it’s really…IT, yet. Maybe Eddie is right. Maybe she just ran away.”

“Oh yeah.  _Alone_.  _Without_  her friends. And  _without_  telling anyone.” Stan blurs, coming to a stop, “Sounds just like (Name).”

The porch is the first thing that catches his attention.  _The summer of 1989 had been a wild ride and if Stan had to grade all of his summers until that point, he’d give this one the lowest score. Naturally, it was because of what had happened down at the Derry sewers…if anything had really happened at all. Two weeks had passed. The Losers rarely talked about it, only mentioned it briefly before moving on to actually having fun (an intention they had had for nearly a month now). Humidity greeted him once he pushed the main door open and staggered into the afternoon sunlight. Shoving his curly hair out of his face he eyed his bike before grasping a hold of the wheel. Well, everyone_ except _you. You had been feeling ill, or so you said, down with the fever for nearly a week now and you had refused to open the door when Richie with great enthusiasm had pounded on it. Even Beverly couldn’t reach you._

_Which was why he was so surprised seeing you sitting on your porch, with a colourful dress and pigtails that looked more like two spouts since your hair was short. You wore a smile, a smile you only regarded Beverly with, or Richie, sometimes Bill, but it had never faced Stan’s direction and now wasn’t his lucky day, either. Beside you sat, who he later found out to be, Jocelyn, with her long brown hair braided by her sides and two pearl earrings in her ears. Jocelyn had a cigarette lodged between her teeth, grinning at you like a fool she had urged you to take one, too, and you did. Uneasy, but excited, you pinched the lighter and curiously watched as the white end of the cigarette lit up with an angry red spark._

_And then both you and Jocelyn noticed him, standing on the sidewalk, gaping, and your eyes grew wide behind the thick glasses. Alarmed you had immediately put the bud out – it hissed with smoke at you, - and quite irritated Jocelyn did, too, flicking it in his direction. She stood up quick, prompting you to follow, mumbling, “Don’t look at him, don’t look at him…” but you couldn’t gaze away. Your cheeks started to burn; even from far away he knew you were blushing. Jocelyn regarded him with a heated glare once he approached the white picket fence separating your yard from the street._

_“Well well well, if it isn’t Stan the_ Bland _Uris.” Jocelyn greeted him, crossing her arms over her chest, “Did you play in the sewers again? I can smell the shit from here.” Something clicked in you. Halos reflected from your glasses and you shakily fixed them, hopping onto your feet and grabbing Jocelyn’s hand. Stan was about to open his mouth, call after you as you led her away into your home, but it all happen so fast he couldn’t keep up – one moment you were telling something to her as you closed the door, the next you were running to him, your dress fluffing in the wind as you did._

_You stopped to catch your breath by the fence and this is when, for the first time, he noticed how big your eyes look behind your glasses, innocent in a way, but spiteful. You frowned, your nostrils flared and your fists balled by your sides. He expected to be yelled at for some reason and so he shrunk taking half a step back, but what came out was a rasp, “I don’t want IT to come back.” Is what you said, all of your resolve and determination melting away like snow in spring, “I don’t…Want to remember IT.” You added softer, “We can’t be friends anymore, or else it might…IT will…” You shook your head, “Just please…leave me alone. And tell the rest to do the same.”_

“…You coming?” Mike inquires, nudging Stan’s shoulder. He blinks. Notes that his friends had long gone and positioned themselves in various spots: Bill and Ben investigate the garden; Richie and Beverly try to unlock the front door.

“Keep watch?”

“You got it.”

Beverly skilled with hairpins and their various uses lets out a small smile as the door clicks and pushes open. But it doesn’t last long. Standing up straight, she looks at Richie, then at Stan, and the latter can see the conflict in her eyes. He tries to reassure her, tries to convince her that what they will find in your house will no doubt show that you really had simply ran away on some sort of teenage whim. That nothing sinister had taken place. That your family, as they state, aren’t worried and there is no reason why they should be.

The three of them step inside and… _nothing_. No ominous feeling, no warning signs, not even a hair out of place. Instead of uneasiness Stan feels…homey, like he’s back at your place for the umpteenth time because he forgot to pick up his algebra homework from you – you were sadly poor at maths, - and he almost expected to hear your footsteps upstairs, followed by his name and then your head poking out with a brilliant smile. But nothing happened. The house is still and silent. The streaks of your perfume had long faded from the air.

Without a word they move upstairs; family photos hang on the wall as they walk past. Beverly eyes each and every one of them carefully, her crystal blue eyes filling with salty tears as she recalls things only the two of you know of. After all, Stan was the only one to visit you often. You and Beverly hadn’t spoken in years. In a strange and possessive way he is proud of that, of your first open friendship now being exclusive only to him and a select few that the Losers don’t particularly get along with.

The second floor is brighter. Richie makes way to the first room on the right. It had been your old room, a room familiar to all of your childhood friends by how much time they all had spent there. The white oak had lost the pretty drawings you and Beverly had created – most were of your name in different fonts, - but the polished handle still had the first letter of your name engraved on it. But Stan passed that door, going ways down, to the very end of the hallway, and only then looking at the two, “Her room’s here.”

“How do you know that?” Richie asks snappily.

“The same way I know she’s missing.” Stan replies harshly, turning the handle, “ _We’re friends_.”

The very first thing he notices is that it’s clean. Unusually clean for your room; you like messes, because in a mess only you can find your things. That and you’re a bit too lazy to pick up failed outfits once you throw them off. Dust had settled. The room has not been used for a while, but again, nothing seems out of place. Your bed is neatly made and adored by pillows. The closet’s doors are shut and the mirror reflects Beverly’s worried expression as she examines it. On the wall a slew of Polaroid pictures with small dates and comments scribbled at their bottom wink at them. Most are of you and your new friends: Jocelyn, Aurora, Laura, your boyfriend and his buddies…And then there’s one, at the very corner tucked away, a picture Richie notes and plucks from the bunch.

“ _’The best day of my life, ‘89’_ ” He reads off, showing the picture to the whole room. There is the Losers Club, or as you liked to call it, The  _Lovers_  Club, sitting on bikes and with goofy grins beaming at the camera as your mother took the picture, “Sure as shit wasn’t if you don’t even bother talking to us anymore.” Richie mumbles, sticking the picture back.

Stan had never really fancied you and he didn’t quite understand why the others liked you so much, either. Not until that day on the porch, not until five years later when you moved rooms did he start putting the puzzle pieces together.

_It was the start of October and the dead of the night when Stan heard it .Music coming from the neighbouring home. Curious he had stalked to the window, leaving his stack of books and dreaded homework on the work table he fully intended to return to. He noted a warm yellow light shining out of a previously not used room. A  note of unexplainable fear struck that perhaps your house is haunted, but…Then he saw you, with your long flowing hair swaying by your face and no glasses, prancing around with the curtains open and mouthing words to the newest hit single everyone was crazy about. In a spin, almost like a makeshift ballerina, you had noticed him, yelped, your face twisting in horror as in turn his twisted into an amused grin. For a moment you disappeared from his vision. The music was cut off and you appeared again, opened the window and leaned out._

_The cool nights air greeted him and he shivered; a spark of excitement lit up in his chest – he hadn’t spoken to you in…years, probably, only heard your voice in utterances at the cafeteria or the hallway, but nothing more profound than that. Your eyes glimmered like scarabs, a beautiful (colour) dimmed by the nightly shade. What he found interesting was that your windows were parallel to one another, and if he really wanted to, and if provided with a long enough plank that could hold his weight, he could easily sneak into your room unnoticed. He wasn’t sure why that thought popped into his mind. Why would he want to visit you? You weren’t friends. This encounter was completely by accident._

_“Hey, Stan!” You greeted him in a melodious happy voice. And then, finally, after so long, you had smiled at him the way you’d simile only at those you deemed your real friends. Granted, he was fairly convinced that you were drunk, or high, or something, because why else would you want to talk to_ him _of all people? Nonetheless he felt something spur in his chest, something he had never felt before._

_“Hey, (Name).” It was even strange saying your name aloud._

_“Fancy meeting you here.”_

_And the two of you talked. Talked and talked and he completely forgot about all the schoolwork that still has to be done and just in how much shit he’ll get into for not studying for the upcoming literature test. It was freeing somehow, he had never held a full conversation with you – when you were kids Richie was glued to your side, and if he wasn’t around Beverly took up his spot. You had moved places – instead of leaning onto the windowsill you now sat on it with your feet tangling over a painful drop. And it felt as I not a day had passed since he last was at the quarry with you. And in a strange sense, it felt as if he had been your best friend all those years ago, not Richie or Beverly or ben or anyone else. Just him and you. Because it felt, and he knew that you felt it too, that the two of you had a connection that words failed to explain._

But amidst that memory…the memory he associates with the time he first developed a small crush on you, he notices an odd occurrence.  At the time it took place he was too out of it to pay attention what was happening behind you – you were just so distracting, so interesting, with your mimics and hand motions and expressive lips, - but now, as he turns to the closet where all your clothes lay hidden behind mirrored doors, he recalls it. How they opened and closed, but you were the only person in the room.

A ring pierces the air, making the group of friends snap to the entrance of the door; Beverly freezes with your passport in her hand, Richie stays still on the bed. The telephone rings again. The sound, sharp and irritating, echoes in the empty home. The friends share a look. They need to get out. Hurriedly they make their way out the room, making sure they left everything as they had found it and trot down the stairs. A sudden beep.

“ _Hey, it’s me_.” It’s your father – Stan recognises the voice. Bringing his finger to his lips he orders the two to shush, “ _We…searched everywhere. All her favourite places, hell, I sent Tommy all the way out of town to Aunt Sharon’s and she isn’t there, either…I spoke to all her friends. They don’t know anything. Haven’t heard from her in…days. I’m afraid we have to do this, Carol. We have to make it public. Our baby girl is missing. Please call me when you hear this_.”

Stan freezes. His muth runs dry and his fingers go numb with dread. If only he hadn’t befriended you, he thinks, if only he hadn’t ….


	3. Laura Palmer Tells a Secret

“ _Students, if I may have your attention please…”_  A tired voice speaks from the speakers and the class falls dreadfully still. Beverly’s breath hitches in her throat; outside the window ominous dark clouds gather overhead, dulling the sparkle of her pretty amber hair, “ _There has been an…_   _The police have informed me that a student of ours, (Name) (Lastname) of Year 3 Class D, has gone missing_.” Hushed murmurs spread like wildfire. The teacher, with a fierce frown permanently fixed on her face, shushes them, “ _Posters with further information have been placed at school and around town. If anyone knows anything,_ anything _at all, I urge you to step up. In the meantime, the police suggest enforcing the curfew again. This is the one and only reminder you will get regarding this matter. All classes are to end till 3pm, extracurricular activities – till 5 pm_.” He falls quiet, “ _Again, if you know anything, please come talk. Help the family and your friend. Thank you.”_  The line goes dead, but no one dares to say a thing.

Beverly stares into the speaker as if her eyes could pierce right through it and see the various wires and mechanism’s its composed of. Her heart clenches painfully enough to spring tears and she smacks a palm over her lips.  **Missing**. You are officially missing. That flimsy hope she held onto – that perhaps you are fine, and what they had accidentally overheard from the sheriff was simply police incompetence, - is promptly crushed to dust and she feels like a wilting flower seized by the cold Autumn weather.

She glances at Richie. He sits lifeless, staring into space; behind her she hears Jocelyn hiccup.  Beverly hunches over the table. The world spins in strange vertigo and it feels as if she dives into a pool of icy water of memories.

_“You like him!” Beverly exclaimed, grinning cheekily and feeling o-so-clever._

_Summer of ’89, before IT, before you quit and said goodbye to the Losers forever. You and Beverly had found a perfect spot in your backyard that to her child eyes appeared so vast and green, with flowers and bees buzzing around and tall old trees that seemed to reach the sky. A tire was hung on one of the sturdier branches and Beverly had slid into it and swayed softly in the air, watching your expression. Your hair was short. It had been long yesterday. There was a visible bruise on your cheek – your mother had slapped you in fright you had informed her lazily, - and Beverly couldn’t help but worry. After all, you followed in her example. Wasn’t this her fault? But you wore such a carefree look…Perhaps your glasses were so thick that they masked any inner pain you were afraid to show. Beverly would’ve know, would’ve understood you. She lived with a monster, after all._

_You blushed like a rose in the morning sunshine; your fingers went to hook (colour) hair behind the tip of your flaming ear, but the hair promptly fell back. You still weren’t used to the new haircut, that you did yourself might I add. You picked on a few weeds and daisies. Lastly, you shrugged, “That obvious, huh?…” You muttered, glancing up at Bev and fixing your glasses – an action identical to Richie’s (or was Richie’s identical to yours?). Beverly couldn’t help but laugh. You looked so adorable when flustered._

_“It was clear from day one to everyone except Richie himself,” Beverly stated cheerily, “for being such a ‘profound love expert’ he sure is dense.” She added. You agreed with a shaky nod. “But…be honest with me, okay?” She leaned in, “What do you see in Richie Tozier?” You blinked, “I mean, not judging, but…It’s Richie. Dorkiest dork of the century and half of his jokes are…-“_

_“-Not funny?” You finished for her with a raised brow. She nodded. “Yeah, I know. But he’s just so…cute.” A small smile bloomed on your lips, one that could be described only as lovely, “With his fluffy hair…and his big eyes…and he wears glasses, too, so I feel less lame.” You finished dryly; Beverly giggled._

_“Yeah, well, when you finally do ask him out – because there is no way in hell he will do it, -  don’t forget your best friend.” She winked at you._

_“Of course not, Beverly.” You said, quite seriously at that, “You know that I love you.”_

_Beverly hardly contained a grin, “…I love you too, (Name).”_

_She was so happy then, possibly the happiest she had been in a long, long time. The two of you sat outside all day, occasionally going to steal snacks from your kitchen and to inform your mother that the two of you were: alive, hungry and waiting for desert. When evening came you dragged her to your room – such a drastic change of scenery from her small gloomy bedroom- gave her your favourite pyjamas and ordered her to stay over. Which she gladly did. You brought out the girliest magazines you could find and the two of you had read them all night, painted each-others nails, attempted at hair braiding but both of your locks were much too short. When your family was finally in bed and snoring, you had sneaked out to get the Polaroid camera. You put the timer on it, placed it on your nightstand and hugged Beverly just as the flash pierced the dimly lit room._

_“To a million more.” You wrote on the picture with a black sharply. That night, you had used up your fathers tape._

But Beverly kept only the one with your chicken-scribble on the back.

She had excused herself to go to the bathroom, shaken and choked by tears she left the classroom without looking at anyone. The hallway was cold and empty. Once she reached the girls’ bathroom, she inhaled a sharp whimpering breath and pushed it open.

The white tiles shine brighter than ever. A scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the air, and Beverly herself feels the sudden need to smoke, too. As she enters the bathroom she sees only one person. Laura, your new best friend and partner in crime, stands in shambles, leaning onto the bathroom wall and starting into the depths of the mirror with the cigarette slowly burning away between her fingers. Beverly always considered Laura to be a bit boring. Kind-hearted and inspiring at times, yes, but for the most part Laura cared only of the latest trends and how her make-up looks. Oddly enough, Laura reminds Beverly of some girl from Twin Peaks – short curled black hair, a striped blouse, long denim skirt and different colour socks.Aren’t those your clothes? Her face is in a state of permanent allure; her brows arch strangely and her eyes are always narrowed as she examines each and every person from head to toe without missing a detail.

Now all of that beauty is melted – her skin is dyed in red spots, the mascara has run down her cheeks and she almost looks like a bad portrayal of a sad clown. Laura notes Beverly stand by the entrance, sniffles a bit before wiping a few stray tears with the back of her palm, “What do you want, Marsh?” She asks through gritted teeth, her voice raspy and numb.

Beverly gulps, “Do you…Do you know where she is?” And it is as if the question physically hurt Laura because she shuts her eyes and shakes her head violently.

Laura takes a long drag from her cigarette before she leans off the wall, “Do you know—“Her watery eyes meet Beverly’s, “-do you  _fucking_  know what happens when someone disappears in Derry?” She sways to the sink, pinching the bud, “They are found two weeks later. In a ditch.  _Dead_.” She spits the last part, “He might as well have told us to prepare for a funeral…”

“ _Don’t_.” Beverly whispers, “Don’t you  _dare_  say that.” Laura looks away, “ _Please_ , you have to know something…You’re her best-friend.” Perhaps this is what Laura needed to hear because she glances up with a spark of hope in her sad eyes. Hugging herself, she sniffles again.

“Do you think I’d…be here, in the bathroom, crying if I did?” She asks, “All I know is that…Is that she hasn’t been sleeping well. And she looked tired. And she was having problems with—“And she promptly shuts up. Her eyes grow wide in alarm, “Never mind the last part.”

“What do you mean having troubles?” Beverly pesters, “With whom?”

“Why do you care, Beverly?” Laura questions tired.

Beverly freezes. Why  _does_  she care? Well, because one time last summer you were her best friend in the whole world, a sister – something she never had and still doesn’t till this day. She doesn’t know why you stopped talking to the Losers. Stan never alliterated, simply stated that  _“(Name) won’t come anymore_ ”. It had broken her heart and she would be lying if she said that she didn’t cry herself to sleep the first night when she came to visit your house and you shut the door right in front of her. She was back to living in her small world, a small world you had broadened with your positivity and love, but she was back and now she knew she will never escape again. The boys are her only friends, good friends and she appreciates them a lot, but she want a girl to share her troubles with,  _she wants you._

And she is still hung up about you leaving, you changing. She still cares about you, too much to put into words but her heart sings when she sees you happy even if you will never return the feeling or even look in her direction.

“…Because she’s a good person.” Beverly says firmly, “And she doesn’t deserve this.”

Laura takes a step closer, now more composed, “Just… _please_  don’t tell anyone. Especially not Jocelyn and the rest…” She murmurs before taking in a deep breath, “She was having troubles with…Everyone, really.” She squeezes out a sad smile, “Before she… _she_ …” Laura gulps, “ _disappeared_ , she only really talked with that…Uris boy.  _Stanley_? Your friend, I think. The last I saw her I was finishing my shift at  _Tea House_ …She stayed to clean up and I…left.” She finishes hollowly, “I can’t help but think that…that if I would’ve stayed, maybe she wouldn’t—“

“Do you have any idea who could’ve done it?” Beverly interrupts before Laura can spiral into grief, again. She shakes her head.

“I told you. I  _wouldn’t be here_  if I did.”

~*~

“He knows something…” Beverly murmurs to Richie, watching Stan Uris in the hallway. The said boy stands further away by the message board – your poster is right next to the cheerleading try-out sheet, - staring at it intently as if he could read something no one else could. The hallway stews with students, loud chatter and sombre whispers echo and bounce off the walls. The hottest topic of the day, possibly the year even, is your disappearance and everyone has to put their two cents into it. It makes Beverly angry. She hears people talking about you as if they had known you, the  _real_  you. She shouldn’t feel the way she does, she knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help it. Their fake sympathies and theories are nothing compared to the pain she feels, what Richie or Stan feel, what your family and other friends feel.

Richie frowns softly, “You think?”

Beverly shakes her head, “I  _know_.” Her eyes trail from Stan to the boy beside her, “Laura told me. She said that he has been the only one (Name) was talking to before she disappeared…”

“I knew it. I fucking  _knew_  he knows something. And he didn’t even bother telling us. That prick…” There is a note of fiery anger in his voice and his eyes glaze over with hatred. Stan Uris slowly pinches the poster off the board, gives it one more good look - his face twists with grief before he can control it –turns on his heel and starts walking to the exit, poster still in hand.

Before Beverly knew it Richie had fallen into motion, swiftly following after Stan and was out the door before she could catch up. When she pushes the entrance open a cold shower of rain hits her along with Richie’s “ _Stan_!”. Stanley turns and grunts when Richie grasps him by the collar. The yard full of exiting students stills and everyone pokes their heads in to see what’s happening. Beverly gulps. Her quick strides lead her down the stone steps and she tries to make way through the thickening crowd of people, “Anyone told you you’re not only a coward but also a fucking  _liar_?”

“Get off me, Richie.” Stan warns.

“What’s going on here?” Beverly hears Bill’s voice somewhere behind her.

“Excuse me… _Let me through_!”

“You fucking  _know_  what happened to her.” Richie insists.

“I  _told you_ all I know.”

Just as Beverly finally struggles her way through, she sees Stan push Richie harshly with a fierce frown on his face. Raindrops dot the surface of her hot skin and lashes. Your poster had slipped from Stan’s grasp and sadly floated to the ground, into a dirty puddle, dissolving within minutes into a mushy inked mess. Beverly springs into action; she grasps Richie’s upper arm and drags him back, “Richie,  _stop it_.” She hisses.

“We know you’re lying, asshole.” Richie spits, “I bet it’s your fault she’s missing, too.”

The unthinkable happens. Beverly shrieks. The crowd cheers and gasps and their faces twists with smiles and winces of pain. Stan had punched Richie square in the nose and he had stumbled back. Bill grabbed a hold of Stan, whilst Beverly still kept her grip on Richie, her lips open in shock. Stan struggles against Bill’s grip as Richie slowly brings his hand to his bleeding nose, “Don’t you  _dare_  blame this shit on me, Tozier. Because unlike  _some_  of you,” Stan’s fiery gaze goes from him to Beverly as he tries to break free again with another harsh tug, “ _I actually fucking care about her_.  _Not_  the person she was six years ago.” And his voice cracks. He falls quiet. His lower lip trembles trying to contain a snarl, “I’m the only one of you who even knew her.”

“Then  _tell us!”_  Beverly cries, “Then tell us what you know, we want to help!” Tears start picking at the corners of her pretty crystal eyes and she shuts them along with her lips to hold in a painful sob. Stan regards her with an unreadable look.

He shakes his head, “You don’t fucking deserve it.” Bill’s grip on his loosens and he finally jams himself free; Stan stalks to the crowd and fearfully they let him through.

“ _Shit_ …” Bill mutters, “You okay, Richie?”

The rain hits harsher. Blood mixes with icy drops and dyes Richie’s cupid’s bow in its sultry color. The boy nods shakily. Beverly hides her face in her palms.

What a mess, what a fucking utter mess she had created and they are no step closer in finding you. This is all  _her_  fault. Now Stan definitely won’t say anything.  _This is all her fault_.


	4. The Nightingale

_“Beep beep, Richie!” You had happily cried, smacking your hands on the glove compartment as if that would somehow ignite the engine faster. A loopy grin bloomed on Richie Tozier’s lips as he momentarily looked away from the steering wheel to gaze at you: you sat shotgun, the sunrays dancing in you short hair and eyes glimmering like the water in the quarry once summer time hit. Sweat tickled your cheeks and your glasses kept sliding down your nose. His, too. Coordinated, more out of habit of watching one another so intently, the two of you fixed your glasses in the exact same way at the exact same time. A laugh rumbled in Richie’s chest. You giggled. There was a strong perfumed scent emitting from your tiny body, no doubt you had doused yourself in your mother perfume before coming outside (you loved to do that). The scent was musky, velvety and dizzying; you looked like a nightingale singing her song in the afternoon. In Richie’s mind briefly shone the memory of Bill’s sleepover and his throat immediately went dry; he sadly could not see your reaction then, but could he possibly see it now?_

_He leaned over and pecked you on the cheek – again, glasses clinked but this time it was neither as uncomfortable nor as unexpected like last time. His heart beat heavily in his chest and leaning out he watched you fumble and blush and smile at him in the loving way you did, before your broke into a beautiful grin showing off your pearly whites. Richie’s worries disappeared with just that, and feeling smug and confident he said, “Watch this, babe.” Quoting some movie he saw on late night TV that one time. He turned the key and the engine of your father’s police truck groaned awake. No, Richie Tozier didn’t have a licence. No, he wasn’t about to take the truck for a spin around town, despite how tempting that sounded. Again, the same movie drew back into his mind. A guy and girl alone; the guy drove her around town at night and they laughed and laughed and laughed, before he stopped in some romantic area and they made-out. Of course, right after that a serial killer showed up and killed the both of them, but does that matter? Isn’t spending time with you more important?_

_He decided against it. He wanted to make a good impression to your father. Richie proclaimed he can park the truck in the garage and that is exactly what he was going to do. Then your father would give him his blessing to date you and then he could walk around town holding your hand and telling everyone not to mess with ‘his girl’. One problem though as his feet were just above pedal reach so he ungracefully slumped in his seat trying to reach them. You laughed at him. Keeping his hands firmly on the steering wheel he gulped. His glasses slid off again, “Babe, hold my glasses.”_

_With a snort, and after buckling your seatbelt (safety first!), you leaned in and your slim fingers held one leg of his thick glasses firmly. “You’re the best, (Name).”_

_You smiled, “Took you long enough to realize.” You replied softly._

_He pushed the pedal and the car took speed a bit too fast for either of your liking. Releasing a yelp you shut your eyes whilst panicking Richie swerved and nearly hit the side of the garage, but thankfully stopped just in time. High on an adrenaline rush he shakily turned everything off and sat up in his seat, his mortified brown eyes coming to stare at your paled face._

_“I think my life just flashed before my eyes.” You commented dryly._

_“H-Hey, it wasn’t that bad.” Richie tried to defend himself. Silence. “Let’s get out of the car and never come back again.”_

_“Yup.”_

That memory surfaces once Richie gets into Bill’s car with Beverly in toll. The school slowly drifts back and disappears completely as they continue driving in tense silence. Bill stares onward, refusing to even glance at the two of them. Beverly sobs in the back seat, a palm over her red lips and gazing out the window with her scared eyes daring around every person she sees, almost as if in search of either Stan or you. Richie finishes wiping the blood away from his face. Maybe he would have fought back if he wasn’t so genuinely shocked. He never thought Stan had it in him.

But he couldn’t blame him entirely, either. Richie said some messed up shit. And it’s only fair to admit that Richie believed some of it, too. Naturally he was pissed. Beyond pissed. But he didn’t really think that Stan had anything to do with you going missing – it could just be a coincidence, right? But Richie loves you. He hasn’t stopped loving you. And by the way Stan reacted, the way his eyes blazed, Richie thinks that…

Stan loves you, too.

“Okay.” Bill breaks the silence. Beverly jerks in her spot; Richie lazily glances in his direction, “Can someone finally fucking tell me what that was all about? (Name) is missing and you… You are fighting over some petty bullshit?”

“Jesus Christ and I thought  _I_ was the blind one.” Richie snaps, “He’s lying to us, Billy, straight up shoving shit in our faces and hoping we believe it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Beverly told me.”

On cue, both of the boys look into the back mirror to see Beverly’s tear ridden face.

“Laura Palmer said that (Name) was having troubles sleeping, she looked anxious, bickered with everyone…” She wipes a few stray tears clinking to her lower lashes, “And that she only really talked to  _Stan_  before  _d_ -…before disappearing.” She finishes in a raspy whisper. “ _She_ …She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t even seem to know Stan that well.”

“Yeah, well, seems like we don’t know Stan all that well, either…” Richie mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, “I knew they were ‘ _friends’_ , but  _best buds_? They sure didn’t act like they were…”

Beverly nods in agreement. Bill shifts in his seat. Richie’s face falls blank. “Are you fucking serious, Billy? You knew?”

“He told me.” Bill defends himself, “Said not to tell anyone. I didn’t question it. Is it really a surprise? They’re neighbours.”

“After all that happened?” Richie states in shock, “ _Yeah_ , I’d say it’s pretty fucking surprising. Or have you forgotten? About the pact? About Pennywise? About—“

“Honestly, if I was (Name), I’d want to forget about all of that bullshit, too.” Bill snaps, “But I can’t. Because I walk by Georgie’s room every morning and it serves as a pretty bitter reminder.” He gulps. The car falls quiet. “Look, we were kids back then. We grew. We changed. I agree that there was definitely something wrong with (Name). But if I recall correctly, she has always been having troubles.” His fingers tater of the wheel, “ _I_ …I don’t think it’s Pennywise. It can’t be IT. IT comes back every twenty seven years.” His sharp eyes land on the back mirror again, “Have…have you seen IT, Beverly?” She shakes her head. “Richie?”

“No.”

“Ben said the same thing. Mike, too. Eddie would’ve definitely told us.” Bill hums, “(Name)’s disappearance could just be…an unlucky accident.” He finishes softly.

“Still, don’t you think we should at least try to search the sewers?”

Richie’s question hangs in the air. He knows no one wants to go back there. Hell, even he doesn’t, but if you are in real danger then he will go down first if he has to. In a strange way he hopes that you are there. Because if you aren’t then only God knows where you might be. There is no way he, or anyone else, can help you then. It pains him. He gulps down the bitter taste flooding his mouth and thinks how scared you must be now. He wonders if you are alive, or eaten, unconscious, or floating.

“Everyone needs to go.” Beverly speaks up firmly. “Everyone. You, me, Bill, Mike, Ben, Eddie  _and_  Stan.  _All of us_. If she’s really there…and Pennywise is… _back_ , then IT will only let us find her if we go together.”

“Tonight?” Richie asks.

Beverly wilts, “ _I_ -I don’t know. Whenever…whenever everyone is ready. It…won’t be pleasant.”

_Two months before your disappearance. Richie Tozier had sneaked into the Boat House – a bar at the far side of Derry where mainly bikers and truck drivers stop to drink before moving down the road to a next stop. Why was he here? Well, he had been wandering town all evening and he was bored to shit with school and the arcade. Eds was busy. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone else, so he went to the place Mike and he once crashed when looking for somewhere that serves teenagers drinks no questions asked. The Boat House isn’t exactly the safest place on Earth, but to be fair, is any place in Derry truly safe? The town itself is cursed. But Richie Tozier didn’t give a shit about that. He didn’t give a shit about anything because he saw you, with a drink in hand, in the dazzling warm fairly lights  swaying next to the stage whilst Julee Cruise sang her melancholic song._

_The Boat House was full – naturally, it mostly always was. Men with heavy leather jackets conversed amongst themselves; truck drivers smoked inside and tried to score a free drink from the bartender. Few couples danced. This was the hideaway spot for many in love teens. You wore a long denim skirt, a striped blouse and different colour socks, sipping on your drink and moving your head to the melody. It was mesmerizing. Richie was confused at first – usually your new friends would pop out about now, your boyfriend would wrap his hand around your waist and offer his shoulder to lean on. But no one showed up. Julee changed the song; the couples clapped politely. A shrill of northern wind crept out the entrance and made Richie’s hair stand on edge. A deep dark night pooled outside the warm building._

_And then you saw him; your eyes pierced him and he gulped, watching as a small smile slowly curled at the corners of your lips and you took a shy sip of your drink again. It was unexplainable, the way you looked at him. As if not a day had passed between the two of you, as if you had still been best friends and talked on the regular. Lovers, even, or maybe he was just digging into this too much. You started to approach him and everything around you melted. It was partly due to the alcohol and the cigarette lodged between his teeth. But you looked so dazzling. Again the familiar scent of your mother’s perfume, the one you loved so much, hit his nose and he wondered if your boyfriend really ever kissed you. Richie doubted you tasted like lollipops. You didn’t look like you did._

_Slowly you set your drink on the counter, your eyes briefly flashing to the bartender, “Thank you, Alfred.” You knew him? Richie didn’t care all that much, instead he focused on the light blush on your cheeks that was barely visible due to the dim lighting. You then looked at him again, “Come here often?” you asked quietly. You leaned on the counter, laying your hand in your palm, hitting his knee with yours by accident._

_“No.” Richie said, taking a drag of his cigarette, “But you do.” You hummed dreamily._

_“May I?” You asked. He was about to open his pack and give you a new one, but you swiftly snatched the one between his lips and put it between yours. He watched the action intently. A red stain of lipstick stuck to the butt of the white cigarette once you gave it back. Smoke fell from your lips and mixed with the dizzying scent of your perfume. “Dance with me?”_

_“Why?” He blurred, furrowing his brows. You simply shrugged, standing up straight._

_“It’s nice to finally see a familiar face around here.” You said, grasping his wrist and tugging him to the dance floor, “I love this song. Will you?”_

_“You’re drunk.”_

_“I want to be.”_

_That was the first time you had even remotely answered normally. There was something dark about the way you said it, like you had been hiding something inside you, wanting to tell the world with all your heart but unable to do so. Your eyes lit up so brilliantly when you saw him…Were you really glad to see a familiar face? Richie couldn’t think straight with you finally being so close, in his arms. Hell, he didn’t even care if your boyfriend was about to show up and most likely beat the living shit out of him. You had seamlessly dragged him to the dance floor between dancing couples. Your hands had landed on his shoulders; his found your waist and weightlessly laid there. You looked up at him, slowly swaying to the beat and Julee’s melodious, yet haunting, voice. And your eyes appeared so big. Almost as if you had those glasses on again, but you were without them. You had long lost them. Richie gulped. This situation was too confusing. You being here, you talking to him after six years of silence, your arms hugging his neck and your face oh-so-close he could kiss you if he wanted to, there and then._

_And he wanted to. He wanted to so much his heart nearly lunged out of his chest trying to reach you. His forehead had landed onto yours, faces inching together – this time there were no glasses to clink, no childish awkwardness to push him away. Your breath tickled his lips and he closed his eyes._

_“Richie?” You whispered softly._

_“Y-Yeah?”_

_“I think I’m going to die soon.”_


	5. Bullshit

_A cold shower passed him and he felt chilled to the bone. Your lovely expression blurred for a heart-stopping moment as the wanton desire cooled in his chest and he pushed you away. Not enough to make it obvious, but enough that your noses weren’t touching anymore and the intoxicating scent of your perfume didn’t reside on the tip of his tongue. Richie stared at you dead in the eyes that shimmered with mysteries and dark secrets that only you knew and only to an extent were willing to share. The music didn’t stop. It was only Richie that stopped all motor functions to fully process what you had so lightly uttered._

_“What…what do you mean you’re going to die soon?”_

_The drunken daze you were caught in faded into irritation as you glanced away for a brief second. Had you expected a different response? A nonchalant laugh accompanied by a long overdue kiss? You didn’t look pleased by his visible fear, and ungracefully your hands fell from his neck, “Excuse me,” you muttered, “I need to powder my nose—“ But he didn’t let you go. He couldn’t bear to. When you turned to leave he caught your wrist and pulled you back close, his mouth opening to say something, anything really, but falling shut the next second when he noted the cold look in your eye. “Let me go, Tozier.” You blurred, trying to yank your wrist out of his grasp but he refused to let go. It might’ve not looked all that well to a stranger – a girl struggling to break free from some creeps grip—but no one wanted to get their hands dirty so they didn’t bother to help._

_“What do you mean by that, (Name)?” Richie didn’t care if you would hate him for this. Even if that hatred lasted for the rest of his life and you cursed him into his grave. At that moment, all he cared about was your safety and welfare and everything in between and how he can help, or at the very least not make it any worse. You tilted your chin upwards and rolled your eyes to the side. Richie pressed harder, “Talk to me for fuck’s sake.” He hissed. Your lips thinned into a line._

_“It’s bullshit.” You stated, finally looking at him straight in the eye and the look pierced right through him, “It’s all bullshit, Richie. Everything. My life. Bullshit. My relationship with Toddy. Football quarterback and his dilly dally cheerleading sweetheart” You scoffed, “what a fucking joke. It’s all bullshit. It’s all a fucking lie. My family. Mr. Tozier, did you know that daddy beats mommy? And not in the fun bedroom way either no I’m talking about max points at the bowling alley I’m not sure how she still has all of her teeth left—“_

_“(Name)-“_

_Tears started to pick at the corners of your eyes and that pale line of your lips bloomed with red as you kept biting them, “Bullshit. Everything. It’s all bullshit, Richie.” He pulled you into his chest and hugged your tightly. You melted into him almost in an instant, “…bullshit.” You muttered into his shirt as he felt it damp, “Everything’s bullshit, Richie.” A breath caught in your lungs and you suddenly lifted your head to look him straight in the eye, “Except you.” Your hand went to graze his cheek and he nearly flinched from such a gentle touch, “Except the Losers.” You shook your head softly, “All bullshit, except for you.”_

_In his mind is forever engraved your tear ridden red and puffy face that gazes at him with pleading eyes. Salty tears clung to the forest of your lashes. And he knew, there and then, that what you were asking for is help. His heart clenched painfully. He realized that he didn’t know how to help you._

Your long hair is parted at the middle and thrown back to show your ears. Smiling you gaze at whoever might be looking at your picture. The black and white photograph doesn’t do ill to your sunny image. And it would appear even less sombre if there were no ‘MISSING, IF SEE, PLEASE REPORT TO-‘ in big bold letters and other smaller fonts with additional information about your disappearance. The photograph your parents used for the poster is from last year’s picture day. A good choice. You look lovely in it.

Late October wind howls past Richie as he throws his bike to the side and briefly examines your picture. It’s almost like he is saying ‘Hello’ to you, in a way. He rubs his hands together, glances at the row of motorcycles and from the sounds coming out the Boat House tries to decipher the crowd that has gathered tonight. Richie thought that inspecting here would be a good start. He wanted to invite Beverly, but Bill dropped him off first and so he didn’t get the chance. Naturally, he could’ve asked in front of Bill.

But Bill is on Stan’s side, or at least, that’s how Richie sees it. And for now he doesn’t trust Bill at all.

Shoving his cold hands into his pockets he approaches the door. Your poster stares him dead in the eye and feeling ashamed he looks away and finally enters the one and only place you had the courage to talk to him.

The Boat House hasn’t aged a day since he had last been here, which was roughly two weeks ago. He returned often after the little chat you had had. Not once did he saw you again. Not alone, or with anyone else. The bar is packed; cigarette smoke lingers in the air and creates a musky mirage with strange fairy lights shinning above head. The stereo plays some country song but it’s nearly drowned out by the gruff talking voices and occasional melodious squeals of women. With a hasty step Richie glides to the bartender. The older man doesn’t notice him at first – Richie didn’t really expect him to, either – but once he does a strange feeling pools in Richie’s chest. Almost like…like he and the bartender share the same wavelength. Like he knows why Richie is here without even saying a word.

The bartender – Alfred, was it? – clears his throat and finishes wiping a glass clean before he throws the rag over his shoulder and goes to take out a bottle from the display behind him. Your poster hangs quietly on a board that has paperclips and numbers on it.

“I heard what happened, kid.” Alfred says, pouring the amber liquid into a glass cup and sliding it over to Richie, “Hope Miss (Name) shows up safe and sound.”

“You knew her.” It is more of a statement rather than a question. Richie doesn’t even bother to touch the drink. Alfred shrugs.

“I know pretty much everyone that enters the Boat House on the regular.”

“And she did.”

“That she did, son…That she did…”

“Then you might have an idea of what happened to her.” Richie insists, “Did she have any enemies? Fights? You gotta fucking tell me something, Mr. A, because I am slowly losing my shit.” His fingers suddenly lunge for the glass and he brings it to his lips and in a heartbeat drowning down the burning liquid in one big gulp. Richie shudders and almost makes a face, but refrains. Set ablaze and now even more frantic than before, he anxiously takes a seat as Alfred serves another patron.

“Miss (Name)” He starts slowly, “didn’t get into fights. No enemies…at least public ones. But she did stay over often. On the second floor. The same room you took her to.”

_‘No, no, not home, anywhere but there’ you had insisted over and over again, clinging to his arm and sleepily rocking on your feet. ‘Room’ you had occasionally pointed upwards with one dazed eye open, ‘upstairs’. Once you got back from the bathroom, tears dried in tracks on your cheeks, you felt even worse than before. If he hadn’t known any better he would’ve thought you secretly gobbled down ten more hard shots in the ladies room. With your head resting on Richie’s shoulder and his hand securely around your waist, he had carefully walked you over to the stairs – apparently, there are rooms for good patrons, mostly for truck drivers that have to go long ways without sleep or excitement. Alfred had given you your own private room as it seemed, and with much care and making sure not to push or pull you too hard, Richie helped you reach the second floor without mostly a hitch._

_The door read a plastic number ‘5’ and by your demand, he had snaked his hand into your skirt’s front pocket and fished out a key. Once the door was opened he immediately realized you were a regular – the room was drowning in your mother’s perfume and that hairspray you always use. Warm yellow lights glistered on the wooden floorboards. Stumbling forward you quite literally threw yourself onto the bed and bounced a few times on the mattress before lying lifeless. A fleeting thought that you might’ve died startled Richie and he moved in to check your pulse, but soon you stirred and rolled over to lay on your back, your eyes closed and hair laying a spray._

“Often?”

“…Most of the time. Or… For far longer than she was willing to admit. Her parents never liked this place…Her parents never really liked her, either.”

_“Richie?” You called sweetly as he, in great care once again, tucked you in and made sure the window was open to let in some fresh air; the music from downstairs was drowned out by the loud songs of crickets and splashes and hums of nearby waters. He was by the door when you had called him after minutes of absolute silence – frankly, he figured you had fallen asleep and was to tell Alfred to bring you a glass of water and possibly some aspirin for the morning. But he stopped, his hand resting on the handle he was not yet ready to pull. You stirred, tilted your head in a way the dim light would play on your jaw and making it appear all the more kissable._

_“Y-Yes, (Name)?” Oh how distracting you can be, he only then fully realized._

_“Won’t you stay?”_

_And persuasive, too._

“Do you know…Do you know who could’ve done this? Who could’ve made her…disappear?”

“I might have a clue.”

_It was as if he was bewitched. His hand fell from the handle and in slow hazy steps he approached you again. Your eyes opened and he thought he saw fireworks. A tired smile pulled on the corners of your lips as you traced each and every one of his features. There was a brief consideration on his part – if he was to stay even for a moment longer, he knew he will be unable to leave, but if he was to go then all of this will go to waste and you will not remember him anymore. He wanted you to remember him. He wanted that ever since he was a child. And so he decided to humour you more, but to expect nothing but your company and possibly some sort of distorted and loopy conversation. He didn’t want you to kiss him. Not while you were under the influence of alcohol or…whatever else you had taken._

_He laid down on the other side, but didn’t go under the covers, didn’t dare to touch your skin again. You rolled to face him, “Have you ever tried the coffee in this place?” you asked, closing your eyes._

_“No.” He replied after a moment of silence._

_You smiled, “Well, you should…damn good coffee.”_

“—That you are going to tell me? Mr. A, right? Right?”

Alfred the Bartender glances off to the side and away from Richie’s probing gaze, “Miss (Name) wouldn’t want me to.”

“She might be dead.” He blurs. Alfred stiffens. “Is it…Could it be her father? Chickenshit Toddy—“

“No. No no no. The Sheriff may have his wife was a punching bag, but he loves his daughter… And Toddy Smith is just a kid. Not a very good one, but relatively harmless…” Alfred leans in, looks around if no one else is listening before giving Richie a stern stare, “Listen” He starts, his voice low and gravely, “she never specified who it might be, but before coming in a few  weeks ago she said that…that ‘she’s’ out to get her. That she has come back.” Alfred narrows his eyes, possibly expecting Richie to know who this ‘She’ might be, but Richie has no clue, “Miss (Name) seemed paranoid. More than usual. I thought she might be on…whatever she’s taking, but she insisted she wasn’t. I let it slide, but…It’s obvious now that I shouldn’t have.”

Richie frowns, “Why wouldn’t (Name) want me to know this?”

Alfred shrugs, “She made me swear not to tell you, Tozier.”

_He didn’t sleep well that night. Kept drifting in and out of sleep since it was either too hot or too cold. Hazily he had opened one sleepy eye at six o’clock, or at least close to that, as mellow sunlight streamed from the open window and birds chirped their morning song. And he saw you, lying in the same position you had fell dead asleep in – with your body turned to him, your hands resting by your head. Light played a pretty pattern on the corner of your lip. Richie smiled despite himself. A warm touch on his hand slowly drew him to blink, to shake awake his senses and he lifted his head from the pillow ever so gently, still afraid to disturb you._

_You had grasped his hand admits the night. Your fingers had laced themselves with his in perfect harmony and refused to let go. Richie closed his eyes again, feeling happier than ever before. He knew that once you woke up you will leave without a word and not even glance in his direction again. But he had been patient for so long…He will allow himself to be selfish for just a moment._

_He squeezed your hand gently before falling back to sleep._


	6. Into the Night.

_It was a late night at the Tea House and Stan helped you close off. Laura left hours ago and only the two of you, the sound of music, and the unruly howling wind outside along with the beautiful shine of the full moon were left. The whole of Derry went to bed, well, at least most of it. The Tea House was one of Stan’s favourite places, mainly because he knew he could always find you here waiting tables or chewing bubble-gum behind the counter and doing your nails. You’d always smile at him, always treat him to a free drink, and always listen to what he had to say. You were friends, after all._

_Friends. Yes, just friends. He kept reminding himself that as he gazed at you from across the table, your eyes glimmering in the dimmed lights. You still wore your uniform – you couldn’t be bothered to take it off until you had one cup of coffee – and lounged in one of the chairs without a care in the world, your attention directed to the uncharted territory behind the window of a lonely empty street. You were his friend, not lover, even if…Even if, and it was hard to admit, more than anything he wanted to reach across the table and hold your hand in his, to feel your soft skin under his fingertips and taste the drops of hot coffee that cling to the rosebuds of your lips. He almost got lost in a daydream, but your sudden movement shook him out his thoughts and he regarded you with a tired smile as he ran his fingers through his curly hair._

_“You know…” You started slowly, raspy almost, as if these thoughts you were to speak of have been plaguing you for a long time. You bit your lower lip, rolled it between your teeth, tried to find the right words, “Do you know why…Why I really abandoned all of you all those years ago?” He perked. You straightened in your seat and cleared your throat, trying to maintain a smile but it was shaky, “I was scared. Really, truly scared of…Of Pennywise. All of you seemed so fearless and…” You drifted off, “In those sewers you defeated IT. But I didn’t. I was…terrified that IT is gonna come back and get me if I hang out with you all and…And I really didn’t want to say goodbye, but it got so bad that… That it grew into paranoia and my parents almost…almost locked me away.” You gulped, “And, well, I had to do something. To shake it off somehow, and cutting ties with everyone was the only way I knew how to do it.” You looked down into your lap, “I know I made a promise, but…” You glanced back up at him, “I never intended to keep it, Stan. I’m sorry.”_

_Stanley Uris found himself frozen in his spot, unable to say or do anything even if he wanted to, which he wasn’t sure that he did. In front of him crumbled the bubbly grinning teenage girl and instead sat a scared kid from all those years ago, wearing those same dorky glasses that kept breaking and with hair so short that it barely reached the tips of your ears. It was a whirlwind of feelings that brewed on the inside, clawing and scratching to get out, but he didn’t know how to show it. Should he smile and reassure you? After all, it’s not like he suffered all that much from you leaving the Losers Club. Should he be angry? Angry because you swore by blood and now it seemed that it meant nothing to you. Or maybe he should be disappointed and hurt? Sad because you didn’t bother telling him sooner. It was confusing, and through that confusion he managed to squeeze out an awkward smile, “You’re okay in my book, (Name). But it’s not me you should be apologizing to.” Stan said and you nodded, “But… You’re alright now, right?”_

_The song changed. The happy tone was replaced by a weightless dazing melody that slid in through one ear and slid out the other. A smile slowly bloomed on your face, a genuine one, as you closeed your eyes and tilted your head to the side to listen closely, “Mm.” You hummed, “I’m not afraid anymore.” You murmured. Slowly you rose from the seat and in a lazy step you approached the stereo and turned up the volume, “God I love this music…” You said, “Isn’t it …too dreamy?”_

_And you started dancing. And Stanley couldn’t help but grin. This was your way, your perfect way to dodge and avoid situations, questions, emotions…To sway. To tilt your head in a way your neck is exposed for the dim lights to play on, to close your eyes softly as if dreaming and float on the dancefloor like a reed swaying from the lightest touch of wind. And you looked mesmerizing. Alluring. Like a nightingale singing her song in the late night to attract those who know no better into her trap._

_Did Stan know any better? Not at that moment, no, not as he watched you dance without a care in the world with your confession already safely placed in the vaults of his mind._

He sees your shadow shimmer through the big windows of the Tea House. The inside is dark and gloomy and all those pleasant decorations now look eerie and sinister to the probing eye. He moves away from the window and a hard breath falls from his lips in a form of white smoke. Derry is quiet and so far no spectators had noticed the Losers Club hanging by the place you were last seen.

Beverly sits in Bill’s car along with the boy himself and Ben. Mike is off to the side, staring at a moth smashing its wings to the streetlight. Eddie couldn’t make it, and perhaps that’s for the best. All is left is for Richie to come, if he even choses to come at all. The Losers are quiet. Beverly is trying to swallow down her sobs and even Ben is a bit teary eyed – he is such a poet, such a gentle soul after all.

All of them are gloomy. Neither shows a smile, quite frankly Stan thinks that smiling is impossible in a situation like this. It’s hard to breathe. His hands are shaking and he can’t help but strain his ears in hopes of…in hopes of what? Hearing your voice? Impossible, after all—

“ _Woah_ , last one to the party?” Richie exclaims, throwing his bike to the side as he fixes his jacket. The group regards him with a wordless stare, share a look, and gather around him like lifeless dolls. Richie, greatly confused, and Stan doesn’t blame him, raises a brow and cracks a shaky smile, “What did I miss? And where’s Eds—“

“They found the body.” Beverly squeezes out. Stan shuts his eyes as if the words had physically hurt him.

“ _Wha_ —“

“Not  _the_  body,  _a_  body.” Bill corrects her quietly, resting his hand on her shoulder.

Beverly sniffles, angrily wiping away a stray tear, “Yeah,  _well_ , I haven’t heard of anyone else disappearing from Derry with the Tea House uniform, so it’s…It’s a safe bet that it’s (Name).”

“ _No_.” Richie states, “No way. No, no, that can’t—“

“ _Richie_ -“

“Don’t you fucking Richie me.” He snaps, “This can’t be real. I refuse to believe it.”

“Good thing facts don’t change once you stop believing in them.”

“Shut the fuck up, Stan. You of  _all_  people should… _Should_ … I don’t fucking know, have a bit more faith?!”

“Stan’s the one that told us.” Mike pipes up, “He overheard the sheriff talking when he left to meet us here.”

Richie shakes his head, “Say no more. I will go deaf from all this bullshit. There’s  _no_   _way_ … _No way_  she got to (Name)—“

“Excuse me,  _she_?” Stan blurs, “Who’s ‘ _she’_?”

He notes Richie’s jaw tense. The said boy looks at the ground before regarding each member of the Losers Club with a somewhat hateful stare, “ _Okay, fine_ , time to come clean. I went to the Boat House and asked the bartender about (Name).”

“ _The_  Boat House?” Mike raises a brow, “You mean the place we went to—“

“ _Yeah_ , same one.” Richie cuts him off, “Now yea, turns out (Name) was a regular. A regular in a way that she knew the bartender quite fucking well, so sorry,  _Stanley_ , looks like you weren’t her only comfort buddy…” Patting his back pocket, Richie finally finds his cigarettes. It takes no time for him to fish one out, bite down on it, and light it up, “Our new best friend Alfred said that (Name) was talking about a ‘ _She’_  before disappearing.”

“And he would just tell you all of this?” Ben pipes up, “How do you know he was telling the truth?”

Richie swallows hard, “ _Because_ …Because I talked with (Name) two months ago, at the Boat House mind you, and she approved of him.”

Stan frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “And  _I’m_  the fucking liar here? Anything else you did besides talk, now that it’s honesty hour?”

“Can you just  _shut_  your hole for one fucking minute?”

“It has been a minute—“

“ _Both of you_!” Beverly flares, “Fucking knock it off! (Name) is  _missing_  and most likely  _fucking dead_ and you’re…” She motions at Richie, “ _You’re_  playing detective,  _lying_  to us and blaming Stan…and  _you_ …” Her attention falls to Stan. He shifts in his place, “ _You’re no fucking better_.” She rasps. “Let’s just go home. Eddie was right. We have a funeral to prepare for.”

_Stars like glass shards were twinkling in the velvet night. Chilliness pooled from open car windows, cigarette smoke swirling and melting into the air. Stan laughed loudly at something you had said, glancing away from the dull scenery behind the window to look at you – your cigarette was delicately placed between your two fingers and had a bright red lipstick mark on its tip; you sat scooted close to him, in his car, with a heavy winter sweater hugging your body and your knees touching the glove compartment. Elvis played on the radio. Behind the denim of your jeans you had mismatched socks._

_It was two days before your disappearance and for the first time in a while Stan had seen you happy._

_The Boat House was far back – Stan had taken the opportunity to pick you up and drive you home, but not before coming to admire the moon reflecting in the clear waters. Plus, he wanted to waste some time with you, possibly cheer you up if he managed to do so, and magically he did. Taking another puff from your cigarette your gaze fell from Stan as slowly you came to rest your head on his shoulder._

_“I had the strangest dream last night.” You started quietly, “ When I woke up I looked in the mirror and asked myself, what did I see? Was it a dream or a nightmare?” You hummed, “I dreamed of a big room with even bigger red curtains…and only you and Richie were there.” A humourless smile bloomed on your lips, “I don’t think you knew I was there. You kept arguing while I just…stood and watched. What do you think it means?”_

And it suddenly hits Stan like a wave of cold water before he can even turn the engine of his car on.

You are alive. Whoever they found that was not you; it can’t be you, because you’re…In the sewers. And only Richie and he, as you said, can save you. Only Richie and he are  _meant_  to save you.

Wide eyed and panicked, he hurriedly turns the key and the car’s engine groans awake. If he drives fast enough he may catch Richie before he gets home. And then the real trouble will begin.


	7. (Name) (Lastname) Has a Dream

You had always been friends with the infamous Losers Club. Quite frankly, you couldn’t recall a memory when you weren’t hanging out with little Billy Denbrough and his friend Stanley Uris, going on trips to the drugstore with Eddie Kaspbrak, or playing arcade games deep into the night with Richie Tozier himself. At first there were just the five of you kids, running around and causing havoc and your parents could not be more disappointed at you turning out the way you did. You took no particular liking to dolls or dresses, and the frilly and pretty bows your mother so wished she could clip in your hair always ended up soaked in mud or stuck in a tree. You were, what now you would call, a tomboy. But back then all you were is just a kid that had the coolest friends, or at least according to you. And you, before the summer of ’89, would have easily given your life away to save them, just as they would have done for you.

But then it changed. Then it all changed for the worse. And with great anxiety you realized that you didn’t want to die, for yourself or anyone else, for that matter.

Georgie Denbrough went missing and that was when your whole world turned upside down fairly quick. Sure, new members joined the club. And you liked them, you really did, but you also hated them. You feared that they would somehow replace you. Now that Beverly was a part of this little street gang you were no longer the recipient of gentle glances or softer touches. But you loved her, dearly, and she was your best friend from day one. But she was pretty, so pretty with her ember hair and doe green eyes, that you also feared her, in a way. You feared that all of you meticulous planning on one day being Trashmouth’s girl (you had heard the term whispered about in school hallways) were to waste. And that fear never truly went away, even when you and Richie slept in the same sleeping bag that one June night.

Then it started happening. IT started happening. All the Losers feared one thing or another; you, of course, did too.

You did not realize it at first. For a long, long time, since little Denbrough disappeared, you’ve been convinced that something lives in your room, but you never truly believed it. You convinced yourself it was the trick of the light that casted such a ghastly shadow, or the house settling in haunting whispers. And you slept with the nightlight on, just in case. In case of what? To scare away the monsters? Perhaps you genuinely believed it would work.

It didn’t.

Summer had just started and you were already flaunting short (colour) hair and a pretty bruise on your cheek to go along with it. The day had been chipper and bright, and even the evening was pleasantly warm, dyed with mellow purple and pink colours and so you only returned when the temperature cooled greatly and the velvet night shadowed the sky. Like clockwork you brushed your teeth, made faces in the mirror, and tried braiding your locks yet to no avail. Your room, marked by the carved handle with the first letter of your name, was quiet when you entered it, was quiet when you closed the door, and was quiet when humming you went to bed. You took off your glasses, set them neatly on the nightsand with a bright grin on your face – today was exciting, and tomorrow will be even better, you were sure – and eye the night lamp you kept on for forever. This night you will sleep without it. This night you will let the stars be the only source of light you need. So without much more contemplation, you turned it off and settled, closing your eyes and letting your breathing slowly lull you to sleep.

Then you heard it. A gentle creak coming from somewhere close, somewhere in your room and your eyes snapped open, but you couldn’t move. You were paralyzed in spot, listening closely for any other movements. The darkness was indistinguishable and blurry. Even if you wanted to see, you couldn’t strain your eyes enough. Another creak, one that indicates a door opening and shivers ran down your spine along with cold sweat.

There and then you recalled one story Richie had told you to scare you into holding his hand – about a woman living in the closet, snatching unsuspecting children at night. And in the darkness you swore you saw long feathered hair, a lean pale figure swaying by the window, scraps of mangled cloth shimmer about as hard footsteps echoed in the room. You couldn’t control your breathing. In a fit of panic you hiccupped, smashed the lamp on and scurried to put on your glasses.

And you saw her, standing by the closet with one hand holding the open doorway. You couldn’t see her face – it was covered in dark wet hair, which’s black water dripped onto your carpet and soaked her feet. Slowly, she slithered back into your closet, and closed the door behind her with a gentle thud.

You had never screamed so intently in your entire life.

And each night she would get closer. Step by step you’d find her in one place or another, before she retreated back to hide behind your clothes for the night. You once awoke to find her standing by the foot of your bed. The next, sitting by your feet. Up until her fingers hooked on the strands of your short hair did you refuse to go back into your room, for good. It was the same night Beverly had disappeared.

Before your disappearance you awoke from a terrible feverish dream that did not fade until you hopped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Your footsteps echoed like thunder as you sprinted down the hall, in raspy breaths taking in as much air as you possibly could as your whole body was drenched in cold sweat. Your mother, with curlers in her hair, had sleepily poked her head out her bedroom door and called after you in question, one that was met only by silence as you slammed the door shut harshly.

The white tiles shone neon almost, spun in a peculiar way that made you dizzy and in great pain you sunk to the floor; the image of her, that woman, the one following you in your nightmares and the one you see in the corner of your eye, now standing clearly in your vision like a bleak shadow you know is not there. You had pressed your knees close to your chest and hugged them, tried to find any warmth in this reality you then found yourself in. To be completely honest you were not sure whether you were still awake or dreaming. You wanted to peek at the mirror. See your face. Count the freckles on the nose, ogle at the remnants of mascara on the corners of your eyes and the smudges of lipstick you forgot to wash off. But you didn’t dare. It was so cold. And you were so afraid to move that you just kept shivering…and shivering…and shivering…until tears sprung from your eyes and there was nothing you could do to stop them.

So you thought of Stanley. Oh, how your small childish heart loathed him all those years ago. How you always called him a coward and afraid to get a little dirty, when truly the only coward in that group was  _you_. But now he had changed. He was different. More attentive. Still somewhat of an ass, but he wouldn’t be Stanley if he wasn’t at least rude once in a while. And a memory sprung from the pits of despair your drowned; admits the tears you recalled raindrops, the deep dark night and grey clouds that settled above Derry like ominous prophets promising something evil. It was perhaps 3am, or somewhere in that timeframe, as you had sprung from your room in frantic but quiet steps. You had ran outside in a haze, felt the drizzle cool your hot skin as your bare feet rammed into pebbles and other sharp objects as you made your way over to Stanley’s yard. It was all a blur: how you managed to catch his attention and not wake up his parents, how he had let you in, and lastly, how you had found yourself in his room. It must’ve been the pills you had taken before going to sleep that had you so confused, but paranoia that kept you awake.

All you recalled clearly were his eyes in the dim lighting of his bedroom, his hot hands on the sides of your cheeks as he kept whispering something, possibly your name, as little by little everything started to focus. You had been shivering, crying, clinging to the blanket so tightly your knuckles were pale as snow. Stan tapped your flaming cheek lightly, “Hey…” he rasped, noticing that finally you were following his gaze, “Hey, I’m here, (Name). It’s okay…You’re safe.”

His last words had flooded the gates with warmth and your heart spurred in your chest. In one swift motion you pulled him into a tight embrace. The damp blanket fell from your shoulders and settled by your feet. He hugged back in an instant, squeezing you close so you could feel his heartbeat, so you could feel something real. Perhaps he had suspected that you enjoyed the occasional high, then. Perhaps he knew that you were buzzed for most of the day and only God knows what you were up to at night. But at the moment you finally felt safe and did not care if he was judging you. A small voice in the back of your mind kept saying that he wasn’t. That he was happy you were there. That he was happy to have you in his arms.

“What happened…?” He murmured into your hair, his fingers coming to play gentle patterns on your skin.

You swallowed a lump in your throat, but it didn’t go away. You bit your lower lip and shook your head. You couldn’t tell him what you saw. What if you opened your mouth, IT would follow him, too? And it would be your fault. You knew how much he wished to forget that summer ever happened. In a way he succeeded almost perfectly. You couldn’t bring that on him. You couldn’t make him go through that again, especially not on your account. You cared about him too much.

“You can’t?” He inquired. You nodded shakily. He sighed before letting you go. His hands found your cheeks again and before you could avert your gaze he locked it, “It’s okay. You don’t have to. It won’t change anything. And I do mean it, (Name). I like you the way you are. Even the way…you don’t want to be.” His thumb rubbed a stray tear away and he released a tight smile, “I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I promise.”

… The  _drip drip drip_  of the sink echoed in the closed space of the bathroom. Slowly you opened your eyes, only to find nothing out the ordinary, and your mother pacing behind the door from the bedroom to the kitchen and back. Still a bit out of it, you wiped the tears away harshly, shakily stood up and wobbled to the mirror. You felt better. Better once you remembered how caring your friend is.

 _Friend_? You asked yourself, examining your dishevelled and pale form,  _only friend?_

But then there was Richie and how you drunkenly had said some things you shouldn’t have. How easy you felt only being next to him; how familiar his whole presence was and how you enjoyed it more than you should have. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself, but he had grown into a handsome young man, one even your mother and father would approve of. That is if they didn’t know him to be Trashmouth. And then what happened, at the Boat House? Richie had saw a part of you, a part you desperately try to wash down with pills and whatever else you can find in the bathroom cabinets and…he stayed. He stayed the whole night and held your hand so your dreams would be blissful, like the look on your face.

A heavy sigh left your lips. There was something about them, about  _both_  of them that would cause troubles, but it was too early and you were too tired to think about it more. School will start in an hour. You need to get ready to survive another day as Toddy’s girlfriend. He made you sick, to be honest. You made him sick, too. Together you destroyed each other more each day.

As you got ready the nightmare faded. Fear succumbed to monotony as you took a shower, picked an outfit, blasted music loudly, did your make-up and fixed a pretty hairdo before grabbing a bag and a few books. You trotted down the stairs and even felt chipper. You wished your mother good morning and kissed your father on the cheek as he lazily watched the morning programme on the TV and read the newspaper.

“Now, kids, have I ever told you about the pretty lady that lives in the closet?”

Your fingertips numbed as you were one foot out the door but suddenly you found yourself unable to move.

“Have I told you, (Name)?”

As if burned you had snapped your head to the TV, only to see some child show with a familiar red nosed clown leading a choir of children, “I bet I have…I bet I have! Have you heard about getting two for the price of one?…How about…getting one for the price of two?” Pennywise the Dancing Clown turned away from the little comedic book he was reading to stare directly out the screen, “One for two? You or them. You or them. You or them. You or them. You or them. You or them! You or them! YOU OR THEM! Y O U O R T H E M! —“

But the TV screen suddenly cut to black and you jerked, turning to your father and watching as he lazily stood up from his armchair, “Damned news anchor _… Hate that sonuvabitch_ …” He glanced at you, “(Name)? Sweetheart? Aren’t you going to school?”

Upstairs you heard a door slowly creak open, and at that very moment you knew exactly what to do. You swallow hard; the idea of running away came to mind, but deep down you knew you couldn’t run from her, from IT, forever. You fixed a strained smile on your face, “Yeah, just forgot something in my room.” You said, as step by step you approached the staircase and regarded your father with one last painful look, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he didn’t see.

And you made your way to the second floor. Nothing was different. Nothing out the ordinary, not even an occasional cold spot. Only the door to your room, the new one, the one you switched places with so the nightmares would stop, was cracked open and you knew what was waiting on the other side of that door. If you don’t go, if you don’t move, IT will get Richie and Stan. One for two…One for two…Either they die, or you do.

You have nothing to live for, not really. But they…they have a life, a whole pretty life ahead of them, whilst yours will only last as long as your next pill intake. So with a breath – possibly the last breath you would ever take – you moved in slow, fearful steps, until you reached the door and opened it fully.

Nothing was there. Everything was how you left it. But you weren’t stupid and didn’t let the hope that desperately tried to flare in your chest break free. You knew IT was giving you a choice. And you were ready to make one. So before you could re-think this, before you could back out you sprang into action, grabbed the double doors of your closed and pulled them open, only to meet eyes to eyes with beady black ones that haunted you for half of your life.


End file.
